


Savage Honeymoon

by meisie



Series: Up Against the Wall [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Edging, F/M, Foreign Visit, Honeymoon, Introspection, Jonerys Week Summer 2018, Mild Kink, Money Woes, POV Jon, Pentos, Romance and feels, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Submission, a Dothraki party, a gift, a silk dress, about as slow burn as I get, bittersweet and naughty, marital struggles, married sex of the fun kind, politicking, there are kids but not revealing details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meisie/pseuds/meisie
Summary: The Targaryens visit Pentos for business, but Jon is determined to make it pleasure. Sequel to Up Against the Wall but relatively spoiler free (a happy ending of some description was always a given). Complicated feels and smut will ensue. Split into two parts because I slow burn sometimes. Jonerys Week Summer 2018 offering.





	1. Chapter 1

 

_A/N: Since I have already created a smutty canon divergent universe, I decided to stay with it for this two parter, but since Up Against the Wall is told entirely from Dany’s POV, I thought it would be fun to hear from Jon and a bit of what he’s been thinking all this time. Nothing too deep, but hopefully interesting, consistent and erm, stimulating. Comments as always are much appreciated. Lovely mood board provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

He was beginning to see the benefits of having subjects so fearsome in reputation and aspect that rich cities were willing to give them anything they demanded just to make them leave.

He was already going to miss his wife’s adopted people, but as he witnessed the sleek magisters of Pentos quail, grovel, and throw open their storehouses, shops and markets to the swarming Dothraki in the hope they would depart by the East Gate as quickly as possible, he had chuckled to himself and decided he was going to miss them even more. They could do with the Khalasar paying a visit to Iron Bank of Braavos before they took the long road east to the Great Grass Sea, and home.

The celebration was a combination of a brawl and an orgy. Daenerys sat with him on the dais, clad in the skimpy, serviceable garb and blue paint of a Khaleesi, savage and beautiful with flowing silver hair and enticing exposed skin. She was impassive, surveying her people, but not blinking or staring at the gorging, fucking in the open, or the fist and arakh duels going on between clusters of riled-up bloodriders. The music was wild and undisciplined, reflecting the joyous mood; thudding war drums, the eerie shriek of pipes and stringed instruments, merging and tunnelling into his ears and giving him a fearsome headache.

Thousands of pounding feet and hooves threw up puffs of dust, and the scent of strange foods cooking in countless firepits made his stomach both growl and lurch. Adding to his discomfort was the sun, brighter and hotter than the Spring starting to emerge in the south of Westeros, readily absorbed by his thick black hair, which she wouldn’t let him cut beyond a trim, and the black calfskin leather doublet and breeches he insisted on wearing rather than horsehair and sandsilk, or one of the fancy lad Pentoshi outfits he’d witnessed. He was damned if he was walking around half naked, or in what looked like a billowing lady’s dress, even if it was cooler. He would sweat, and suffer.

The bolder members of their motley court wandered freely among the crowds, eating and drinking and avoiding getting embroiled in fights. Sansa would have been utterly horrified, but Arya was quietly enjoying it all, as watchful as a slinking grey cat and quite capable of defending herself against unwanted attention, and Tormund was in his element, roaring drunk with a woman on each arm and likely to ride off with them in the morning on a whim. To think of it, there were a lot of similarities between the Wildings and Dothraki. Once he’d gotten over his innate Westerosi suspicions, he’d found there was a lot to like about them. Back on Dragonstone, he’d had to knock a few to the cobblestones in swordfights before they started to respect him. Pretty Khal, Snow King, Khaleesi’s bedmate, were some of the mildly insulting names they used to bestow, but now they merely called him the Great Khal, which still made him a little embarrassed.

He’d learned their language, drunk with them, rode and fought with them, and married their beloved Khaleesi. Daenerys had told him the Dothraki follow only strength, and they had followed him and his queen to the bitter end. Some of the younger ones had elected to stay on in Westeros, but most of those that survived had wanted to go home, and it was the least they could do in thanks. A great flotilla of ships had left from King’s Landing carrying people and horses, some of the court and the children, leaving the country in the hands of Lord Tyrion.

As far as he was concerned, Tyrion could have it.

As soon as they had felt the warm red dirt of Essos beneath their feet, the Dothraki became more cheerful, animated and unruly. He didn’t approve of raiding and raping and stealing, but it was their way of living, and without their Khaleesi leading them, likely they would be back to wreaking havoc and collecting tribute very soon. Under Daenerys’s loving control in Westeros, and subdued by the cold, hard lands and the demons they were asked to fight, they had conducted themselves without much trouble, but going by the scene before him they were itching to let loose. None of them had much chance to celebrate the sheer relief of being alive at the end of it, the clean-up had been too consuming, months of toil turning to years, so he didn’t blame them a bit.

This was the last farewell, and he knew Dany was melancholy about it. It was the end of an era for her, and her unique blue eyes brimmed with memories good and bad when he looked deeper beneath her detached mask. The palace where the celebration was held was merely encircling grey stone walls overgrown with vines, large enough to house many tents and horses, and the stone dais where they were ensconced. ‘What is this place?’ he had asked her when they arrived to set up camp, opting to stay with the Dothraki until their departure. ‘This was my husband Drogo’s manse,’ she said briefly, then turned away, a strange, hunted expression on her face.

His wife had magic in her blood, had walked through fire and vanquished terrible enemies, and had become a mother despite war and endless death and a dire curse. There was little that rattled her, but there were pieces of her past that she did not like to share with him, even now. She hated to feel weak, and hated remembering what it was like to be weak even more. He had tried to coax it out of her gently, why she seemed both at ease and uncomfortable in this place, and the manse of Magister Illyrio where they were to be hosted at next, but there was little opportunity to probe enough to get an honest answer.

As at home, if you could call King’s Landing a home, Daenerys was preoccupied with all the demands of ruling. Their impoverished, half-starved realm, deep in debt. The children, still too young to leave alone for too long. The presence of family and friends, the day to day tedium of governance and the dance of diplomacy. They had never gotten to that isolated tower he’d promised her in the dead of winter before the ice storm had broken over their heads, and if he didn’t assert himself and snatch her away from endless duty he knew it would likely never happen.

Well, he wasn’t having it. Once the Dothraki had ridden off he was capturing her, if not for a week, for a single night. Greedy bastard bankers and oily diplomats could await their pleasure. They’d had precious little of it lately, and he was beginning to feel the loss of it, an irritating itch between his shoulder blades, a dull cramp in his stones, the increased tendency to growl and snap at anyone who interrupted private moments they managed to snatch. He could sense his wife was also tense, he often caught her looking at him wistfully, as if she was pining for something only he could give, usually at times where he could do nothing about it, such as in meetings, or at court, or with the babes. The ache that the look would give him in his heart and other parts he recalled now as he let his eyes travel over her profile, the loose silver locks trailing down her nearly bare back, creamy breasts swelling over her vest. She was more beautiful and alluring to him now then she ever was, wife, mother, lover, and queen.

His whole life had been defined by duty and self-denial, and now they had what Daenerys had dreamed of since she was a girl there was yet more of it. More than having her to himself for one night, his ultimate aim was to have her forever, her and the children, human and otherwise. He didn’t want it for himself, the crown, and he didn’t want it for her. All he wanted was for them to be left alone to heal and rest and love, surely they’d done enough to earn it, but breaking the wheel was as much as a struggle as the Great War.

 _One night, then_ , he thought, continuing to stare at her speculatively out of the corner of his eye, enjoying her slight smile at Quono as he bellowed a bloodthirsty toast to her from below the dais, her wide pink mouth a pretty curve that invited a biting kiss, her shadowed eyes lighting up with it and making his own solemn mouth quirk. _One night, my beautiful, wicked wife, and I will stir better memories for you, and make new ones._

***

He’d never given her anything.

Apart from an impulsive gesture with shells he’d collected on the beach at Dragonstone like a lovesick fool and left on her desk to surprise her, he had never wooed her. No posy of flowers, though she had said she hated them, no fine jewels, or a horse, or a cloak to keep her warm other than his own. He had vague ideas about what a man must do to win a lady learned as boy, listening to knights in Winterfell, or braggarts like Theon, and later to lonely, wistful men at the Wall. Apparently women had to be showered with gifts and pretty words to offer their hand, or their virtue.

He hadn’t done that at all. He’d shown up at her fortress, demanded she fight with him with no proof but his word and for no reward, pissed her off with his defiance, mooned over her silently for weeks, and then grabbed her and kissed her in a moment of blessed lunacy. After that, he had proceeded to fuck her feverishly all night like a boy with his first woman, then promptly left in the morning on a suicide mission she deeply disapproved of, starting a chain of events they had barely survived. But despite all that, he had won her.

His wife was a singular woman, not like anyone else, and hardly needed winning now, she loved him so completely it was a warm, permanent glow of satisfaction in his chest, despite the distance caused by the aggravations of daily life. But still, he felt a lingering thread of guilt over it. She carried the mark of him on her skin, his scent, his bite when he felt inclined, the silvery lines on her belly from birthing their children, but no ring, no necklace, no betrothal gift that befitted a queen, no mark of wealth that said that he was worthy of her, and that she belonged to him.

‘You want to go shopping,’ Tormund said incredulously, pausing in his attack on a honeyed chicken leg. ‘What the fuck do you know about _shopping_?’ They were lounging in one of the Magister’s banqueting chambers, picking at the mountain of food laid out for them. The sun was filtering through curtains of silk gauze, the spangles of the shifting sea outside reflecting on the marble walls, the golden nude statues. It was so sultry he’d shed his doublet and was in shirtsleeves, and Tormund was perspiring in rivulets thanks to his thick beard and heavy tunic. Only Arya looked at ease, lightly clad as a young squire, tossing grapes in her mouth. She’d never learned the table manners of a lady.

‘Little and less,’ he grunted, annoyed with the hint of a blush creeping on his face, his sister’s laugh not helping matters. ‘But I can hardly go out wandering on my own. Not everyone here is happy to see us. You two can come with me, you’re quite capable of dealing with cutthroats if we get surrounded. I want to buy something for my wife.’

He still had little money of his own, but when he’d mentioned his predicament to Lord Varys he had been given a big bag of gold dragons and a withering look at his sheepishness. ‘You saved the world from ruin, your Grace,’ their Master of Coin reminded him. ‘You can have as much money from the treasury as you like, though I fear it is mostly dust and rats. Our coffers are empty.’

Hence his wife being absent all day long in a meeting with the magisters of Pentos, who were more sympathetic to their predicament to the bloody Iron Bank, thanks to the exceedingly slippery but loyal Illyrio Mopatis. The crown owed the Braavosi money thanks to Queen Cersei, and they didn’t care that the evil bitch was dead, they wanted payment. And they needed money to rebuild after the war to boot. Daenerys was negotiating with the magisters to both buy out the Iron Bank and lend, and it was hard going. Despite his intentions to steal her away, he had barely seen her for two days.

He had tried attending at first, but his sullen presence and blunt words were not helping matters. Negotiations required nimble, flowery prose and empty promises, which he didn’t possess. It was hard to get outsiders to be grateful for them saving the world if they had seen nothing of what had transpired. As far as Essos was concerned Westeros was a perpetual grim, freezing hellhole of warring barbarians, with a new Targaryen queen and king who had come begging like Dany’s loathsome brother all those years ago. It was incredibly frustrating.

‘Well, are you going to stop stuffing your bleeding faces and come with me or not?’ he grumped at the pair, and finishing his goblet of white wine in a hurried gulp, he stood up and fished for his doublet. ‘I’ll arm up and go by myself then.’

Arya paused in her game with the fat black grapes, munching through her reply. ‘I hate shopping,’ she announced. ‘Sansa likes shopping, but I’ll go with you just to see you get all grumpy and tangled in knots trying to find something.’

‘I knew I could rely on you coming if there was an opportunity to take the piss out of me,’ he replied, earning a girlish giggle from his favourite sister.

With some muttering and rolling eyes, the pair of them eventually detached themselves from the table of tempting food that was not available at home and followed on his booted heels. He stopped by the nursery on the way out, soothing his edgy mood with the soft, sweet bodies and happy sounds of the children, still so small and wobbly on their feet and new to the world that nearly every day he would have a qualm of fear that they could so easily be taken away from them.

Satisfied they were being looked after well enough, sparing them both cuddles and sweetmeats from his pocket that Missandei frowned at him prettily for doling out, he kissed them, bid farewell,  armed up with trusty sword and blade and left the sprawling palace and its overwhelming luxury behind. It wasn’t just food they lacked in Westeros, all the elaborate trappings of the crown were threadbare, outdated or needed to be sold off. The Red Keep was a spartan shadow of its former self, Dragonstone was in a similar state, it was shocking to the senses to enter a land untouched by war and want, and witness those that owned the means of making more gold living better than kings. They needed the help of the magisters, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

He brooded in the carriage while Arya and Tormund traded friendly insults and commented on the sights, gazing blankly at the crowded streets, the colourful swirls of silken gowns on ladies, barefoot bondsmen in loincloths toting loads from the port, stalls of wares from strange distant lands, faces brown and white and yellow and black, and scents both intoxicating and vile, the round towers with the spiked crenellations which were the city landmark looming above all haughtily. His mind flew east, tracing the steps of the Dothraki into the continent’s grassy heart, and further; Lys, Volantis, Mereen, Qarth, places he’d heard of at Maester Luwin’s lessons, and later in tales from his wife, who had seen them all.

He had never expected to leave the North, he had expected to die at the Wall. He _had_ died, and every step since had moved him further away from the boy he was, the identity he thought he had. He could go anywhere, he could be anything he wanted, the realisation was hitting him at odd moments since he had left King’s Landing behind. With Daenerys, the beasts, and the children, they could become vagabonds, drifting from one exotic place to the next, or they could find one place far away from the past and present and just _be_ , his wife’s secret desire. A place where the sun shone and they had all the time in the world to eat, drink, fuck, and sleep. If he found her a suitable gift, it would not only be his mark, but his promise that he would make it happen.

The jewellery bazaar was a colonnaded square building heavily guarded by uniformed troops who resembled their Unsullied but were somewhat softer around the middle and less alert. Inside was a warren of tiny booths browsed by veiled women and haughty looking lords and merchants, the close air reeking of mingled perfumes, burning incense and sweat. The booths quickly became a blur of baubles in red gold, black gold, yellow and white and a rainbow of stones, and he grew impatient and perplexed as Arya had predicted, seeing nothing that would suit his wife. She wore two rings on her dainty hands, both had been her mother’s, quite plain and elegant, but he wanted something truly unique.

The seventh booth he passed with his bored companions he glanced into and saw nothing on display, just a woman sitting at a black table inlaid with silver vines and flowers, exotic almond-shaped green eyes regarding him above a face veiled in thin red silk. There was something about her eyes, her clothes, her silent, considering look that reminded him of the Red Woman, which made him uneasy. He went to turn and leave, and the woman spoke. ‘King Jon of House Targaryen, first of his name. The White Wolf, Father to Dragons, victor of the Battle of the Dawn.’

He turned back, startled, his reply abrupt and rather rude. ‘Nobody in this place knows who I am, how is it that you do, my lady?’ It was the truth, no one in the bazaar had given him a second glance, though they had arrived at the port with great pomp and excitement a week ago. In his plain garb, shadowed by only two mismatched companions, he in no way resembled a king, which he preferred.

‘We hear stories in Essos of the Battle of the Dawn, and the new rulers of Westeros. People love a good tale, and some tales are believed as truth,’ she said, shrugging beneath her layers of faded silk. ‘I was at the port when you arrived, I had to see for myself to believe it, the return of House Targaryen from the ashes, but I must say you don’t _look_ like a Targaryen, handsome though you certainly are.’ Her voice was a lure, a low, throaty purr, strangely accented. ‘I sense you are looking for a gift for your wife, your mark and your promise.’

His suspicion grew deeper, as did his frown. He thought he was done with sorcery, and yet here was a strange woman reading his thoughts. ‘Are you a _maegi_ , my lady?’

‘No, I am just observant,’ she said with a sultry laugh. ‘Have a seat, your Grace. I wish you no harm, only good fortune to you and the Mother of Dragons. You can keep strolling the market, getting more hot and frustrated and ill tempered, or I can show you what I have. I only carry a few items, the rarest of jewels, extracted at great danger and cost from the ruins of Old Valyria. Only the bravest of men are willing to enter to sift through the rubble to find what I have, and I only sell my wares to those who appear worthy.’

He knew that these wares would greatly interest Daenerys, and he was now intrigued himself. He took a stool opposite the woman, Tormund and Arya left outside to guard. The woman’s expressive eyes widened as she took him in from two feet away, as if she liked the view. He was getting used to this by now, so he didn’t react with a blush or squirming. He’d been ogled by scarier women than she. Apparently women found him very pleasing, as his wife had reminded him on many occasions, though he still didn’t quite believe it. Too short, too many scars, his clothes as drab as a sparrow or crow, more like to brood than smile and crack a joke, he was no prize.

He refused a cup of wine, and sat back as the woman drew out a black velvet bag, spilling the items out on a runner of silk. Some of the jewellery looked as new, glittering and polished, others weathered with age. The old pieces were ornate and fascinating, dragon claws holding jewels, bracelets and chokers of overlapping scales, sinuous shapes that slithered through his hands, the jewels unlike anything he had seen. From what he had heard in tales about the Doom, he was astonished that any of the items had survived. But it was the plainest item that drew his eye, a smooth, rounded stone as red as blood, as red as fire, set in white gold. He picked it up carefully between his calloused fingers.

‘That is a blood ruby, your Grace, prised from the wall of a ruined palace on the Smoking Sea, cleansed with fire, cut and reset in white gold,’ the woman finally spoke. ‘The stone is rarer than black diamond. It has been remade anew, a thing of simple beauty, whereas the old pieces are soaked in history and sorcery. Your wife may be interested in the antiques, but perhaps she would like the ruby better.’

‘I think she would,’ he said softly, looking up at her through his brows for a long moment. ‘I am still not convinced you aren’t a witch, my lady.’

‘If I am one, I am a good witch,’ she said calmly, an indulgent smile in her emerald eyes. ‘I would happily give it to you for free, Jon of House Targaryen, in thanks for all you have done for the living, and for your handsome face, but I am also a poor witch.’

He snorted at her flattery and wit, the corner of his mouth turning up in an involuntary smile. ‘I expect you like to bargain a man hard, _maegi_ , but I will gladly pay whatever you ask so I can get out of here.’

 

**_If you want the second half, you know what to do…_ **


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Wow, thank you so much for the enthusiasm on Part One, it’s great to know that so many people still care about my big, stroppy bastard Wall, and want to know how it ends. It’s going to make me a sad smut scribbler when it does, but I’ll try to get there._

_YAY to the Discerning Tarts for putting on a riotous Dream of Spring week, and my eternal gratitude to **Sparkles59** and **Justwanderingneverlost** , **LustOnMyFingers** , and **Ashleyfanfic** for writing me beautiful smut for my birthday. I was so overwhelmed by the avalanche of quality smut I had to take my time to chill, have a er, lie down, then finish this off, so I’m late. Remember to show all the other writers some love for their fantastic efforts. _

_Enjoy, and remember to come back and tell me what you thought when you’ve recovered._

‘My wife is indisposed,’ he had announced coolly to the council assembled after the meeting with the magisters had finished. Daenerys drooped in her seat, appearing drained of her usual energy. She looked up to give him one of her stares, so full of warring emotions he was unsure whether she was pleased or annoyed at his assertion of authority, but he mulishly continued. ‘Tell the magisters she is ill, or the children are ill, I don’t bloody care. Not another banquet, no more talk. She needs a rest.’

He had more than rest on his mind, acknowledged by the flare of pupils in her blue depths. There were some protests from Varys and the lords, but they stuttered to a halt when he swept his glower around the table. ‘You can resume in the morning, my lords. We do not wish to be disturbed tonight.’ Negotiations had reached an impasse, and the ideas being thrown about had resorted to burning the Iron Bank to its foundation stones, or Arya offering to pay the bankers a visit one by one. Tempting at this point, but not particularly regal.

He had risen as the griping settled down at last, pausing in his path to the door to bend and whisper into his wife’s ear. ‘Go and see to the children and bathe, I will meet you in our chambers.’ She shivered slightly at the words and dipped her intricately braided head in a nod. Satisfied, he had hurried off to bathe and dress himself, choosing a lighter doublet and breeches that would please her, and absented himself so she could prepare for the night.

He prowled the palace terraces as the sun sunk into the Narrow Sea, raw need coiling in his belly, then returned to the nursery to see the children before they were put to bed, putting aside his increasingly lurid thoughts for an hour so he could sit on the Myrish rug and play with their blocks and rag dolls, and read to them from a book of fairy stories as they sat on his lap. Instead his spare thoughts tangled themselves in the meeting he had abruptly ended, the lack of options available other than begging or intimidation. They would never escape the trap of leadership unless the kingdoms returned to normal, but it was an insurmountable problem for tomorrow.

His fatherly duties were now done, he kissed the children goodnight and went to the royal suite, steps increasing in pace as he passed each flickering sconce in the wide hallways. He closed the doors behind him and shot the bolt, searching for her in the mellow light of the oil lamps. A sea breeze stirred the gauze drapes that framed the doors to the terrace, and he caught the scent of spiceflower perfume before he spotted her, her back to him as she gazed out to sea towards home. Her gown was a pale lilac of a thousand tiny pleats, a royal purple sash encircling her waist, the fabric so sheer he could see the curve of her buttocks beneath, then the rounds of her breasts as she turned, the nipples rigid under the thin fabric.

She had fed their children from those breasts, and they were different now; bigger, lower, the nipples dusky and dark, even more arousing to him. Her belly was a soft rise, her navel a dark hollow, the wider hips another change to her petite form. He felt the breath catch in his throat at the sight of her, a warning throb in his groin. He couldn’t recall the last time he had taken her beyond a hurried coupling in the night or early in the morning, so he would take his time tonight, give her everything she desired, hoping it was what he was craving himself.

Barefoot under the hem of her transparent gown, her hair only softly gathered off her face, she appeared as an innocent maid despite her ripe body, her eyes wide as if a little afraid as he crossed the floor, but he knew it was a game. She liked to tease him, to be stalked and cornered and ravaged. Everything about her was designed to madden him and make him hard as iron, down to the little gasp she made when he reached her and fell to his knees at her tiny feet, but then the sophisticated woman returned.

‘Jon Snow, bending the knee,’ she said, bemused. ‘I shall never tire of it. What have I done to deserve such treatment tonight?’ Her hands fell on his head like a blessing, and he buried his face in her belly, her warmth blooming under the flimsy silk. She quickly dug her hands in his bound hair, freeing it to drag through her fingers, her nails on his scalp making him murmur. He was minded to pick her up and take her to bed right this minute, but instead looked up into her softening eyes. ‘I love you for rescuing me, though it was rather rude of you.’

‘I needed you to myself, and you need me,’ he said, his voice thick. ‘I once promised to steal you away for a whole week, lock you in a tower and have you in many ways, this is the best I can do for now.’ She sighed, a fingertip tracing the scar curved around his right eye. ‘I have something for you, love. I hope you like it.’ Her brows arched in surprise, and he fumbled in his pocket. ‘Close your eyes, don’t open them until I say,’ he said on a whim. With a twitch of a smile, she obeyed, and he took her left hand, laying a kiss on her palm, then slid the ring on her betrothal finger. Her delicate hand, the ruby like a drop of dragon blood caught in white gold, was so lovely he kissed it again. ‘Open your eyes and look.’

Her lids fluttered, her sea-blue eyes glittering when she regarded her outstretched hand, then regarded him fiercely, a visible swallow in her throat. ‘This is beautiful, and unique, and I shall wear it forever with pride,’ she said finally. ‘For the Gods’ sake please kiss me hard, before I start weeping all over you.’

He did better than that, picking her up in an armful of crushed silk, and carried her to the enormous bed, four turned posts holding up a canopy of white drapery, an intricately carved headboard perfect for what he had in mind for later, if she consented. But first, he sat down with his wife across his lap and took her mouth in a bruising kiss, her hands grabbing the sides of his face to deepen it, her tongue flicking over his bottom lip and delving like a kitten with cream. She made a purring noise, and he made sure to fill his hands with her round arse, squeezing it with familiarity.

She broke away after a blissful minute, eyeing him curiously. ‘After all this time, now you decide to woo me with fine jewels like a lord with his lady,’ she said. ‘You already own me, body and soul, so why?’

He didn’t want to explain his complicated thoughts of earlier in the day, so kept his words light and suggestive. ‘I have heard you should charm a lady with gifts to win her virtue. I have been remiss in that.’

‘You have,’ she replied, smiling slowly. ‘And yet you already won my virtue long ago.’ She lifted her laden hand and admired it, then her voice lowered. ‘I expect something so exquisite and thoughtful will earn you a lot of depravity.’

His hands on her arse moved, one drifting around to palm her belly, the other to pluck at the sash at her waist. The length of silk reminded him stirringly of their wedding night, which was why the minx had chosen this gown. He knew his wife. ‘What do you want love?’ he rasped, pressing a kiss on each breast, his eyes locked with hers, brown earth and blue sky.

She paused, trembling a little in his grasp, a splash of pink on her cheeks, but her words were as shameless and confident as the most highly prized whore, causing an uncomfortable twitch in his confining breeches. He was hard the moment he entered the chamber, but now he urgently needed relief. ‘To have no control,’ she said. ‘To be nothing but yours to do with what you will, fuck me until it hurts, like you paid for me in truth. Whatever you want of me, take it, like you promised me long ago.’

‘What if I want to make love to you slowly and gently and hold you like you were made of glass?’ he said solemnly, just to make her laugh, and she did, a liquid sound pleasing to his ears.

‘Then you shall have it, though I might yawn somewhat and fall asleep,’ she replied, her eyes sparkling with mirth and challenge. ‘Whatever happened to that Jon Snow that loved to mess me up? How I miss him.’

‘Oh, he is still here, especially when you’re bloody wicked,’ he growled. ‘Very well then, as my lady wishes.’ He would likely ruin her fine gown in the process of leaving her a ruin, but he knew she wouldn’t mind, it was for his eyes only, and what was all bare and warm and yielding beneath it. He moved quickly, his mind entering a dark tunnel which he would walk with confidence until the end, shuffling backwards onto the mattress and turning her face down across his lap, drawing her skirts up in a slide of his palm.

She made a whimpering noise under her fall of hair, taking handfuls of the brocade covers. Nothing roused her quicker than this, she had always liked a little pain to heighten her pleasure, and lack of control was a soothing drug to her, countering the demands she had to face in her public life. She had a perfect, heart shaped arse, so smooth under his palm as he rubbed one cheek then the other in slow circles, and he caught a glimpse of her cunt, folded petals already plump and slick, and _bare_ , not a trace of silver hair. She’d had it all stripped for tonight so he could see and taste her easier.

When he hit her, he did not spare the force of it, a hard slap against her left cheek to leave a red wash. A cry and a thrashing he stilled with his hand between her legs, then the right cheek given the same, rubbing over the aggravated skin so the sting was drawn out. After that, he was kinder, just light smacks across her bottom, enough to turn her creamy skin as pink as a rose. He toyed with her in between the blows, fingers delving in her wetness, swirling around her nub, parting her cheeks to find the tiny opening that felt so good around his hand, and later his cock, which burned and nudged up against the soft weight in his lap at the thought of it.

Nothing was forbidden, so he eased into her arse with two wet fingers, biting his lip at her ragged moans in response and rewarding her with another slap. ‘Yes love, I will have everything, especially this,’ he whispered, wriggling his hand within her in emphasis. Gods she was so tight and hot in there it was always difficult not to fill her with his come within moments, and he didn’t want that tonight, he wanted her comatose and purring like a lioness after a long, hard possession. He removed his fingers from her clasp after eliciting a helpless cry, delivering one last sharp spank across both reddened cheeks. ‘Get on your knees and give me your mouth.’

She had assumed her role of obedience that drove him crazed and made him forget himself, she dropped to the floor at his feet with lashes lowered over her blushing cheeks, hair already mussed, her hands going to the lacings of his breeches as she crawled between his legs. The first time she had taken him in her mouth he thought his heart would burst with it, and now she was so attuned to what he needed to spill in her throat it was even more overwhelming.

He was rock hard and hurting, and her mouth, so warm and wet and deep as she took him down, her lips stretched around his girth, her little hums and moans as she worked him…he fisted the covers, spread his thighs and whimpered like a babe as her hands gently tugged at his stones, her tongue flicking at the skin peeled back from the head of his cock in a sweeping pass, then tightened cheeks descending, taking him right to the root so she gagged and her eyes widened in sudden distress.

He grunted like an animal and held her head between his hands, positioning her and fucking her mouth like her sweet cunt, chasing the friction he needed, selfish and rough, but she took it all, bracing her hands on his thighs, her brow furrowed in concentration, hair slipping down to tickle him as his movements became jerky and erratic. A hand left his leg and disappeared below, and the thought of her touching herself as she served him made the groan in his chest turn into a ripping growl.

The tightening in his stones released like a bowstring, a surge of power travelling up his spine, his cock twitching in her hungry mouth and erupting. He loosened her hair from his fists, slumping backwards as she received his seed and swallowed it, her eyes opening to stare him down as she gulped it gratefully. His heaving breath hitched and stopped at the sight, so wanton and exciting she wrung more out of him, a dribble of the mess on her lips as she finally pulled away to breathe air, lapping it up with the tip of her tongue.

It was not a reward, she had pleasured him countless times with her mouth with no incentive other than wanting to love him and serve him, but he would gladly endure shopping every day if needed, if this was the response he earned.

***

There was a view of the night sky from the canopied bed where they lay, pinpricks of ice-white stars in the velvety blue-black, the hiss and roar of the sea on the rocky shore reminding him of Dragonstone, the soothing sound and the wine making him drowsy. He had found release but had denied hers for now, knowing that she occasionally liked this, to be kept balanced on the edge, the welling from her cunt creating a damp patch on the front of her gown, the rich scent of her permeating the air, her little mewls when his hand slipped between her legs to idly palm her making his sated loins stir.

Despite this gentle torment, Dany was finally at ease, sipping wine and accepting morsels of cut fruit from his hand, curled in his lap comfortably, enjoying the peace and quiet with its underlying taut threads of anticipation binding them close together. He loved to pet and coddle her, when she let him.

 ‘I am a selfish woman,’ she said ruefully at last, disposing of her empty goblet on the side table then settling back with a hiss, her raw bottom cradled by his hips. ‘Always wishing that the day will come when I can do exactly as I please, instead of what I must.’

‘Today I thought about running away,’ he confessed to cheer her. ‘Taking you and the children and the beasts and doing a grand tour of all those exotic places you have been, and forgetting to come back.’

It worked, she shook with a girlish laugh, her hair stroking across his bare chest as she bent to nip at his lips. ‘And what shall you do when we reach Mereen, my grumpy Northern lad? Will you knock my old lover to the dirt?’

‘Likely I will,’ he said gruffly, a flare of irrational jealousy creasing his brow. This Daario was now the Lord of Mereen, ruling over an elected council of freedmen with the cunning and lethal pragmatism of a sellsword. ‘But since this old lover sends us ships of grain and gold when he can spare them, I won’t run him through.’

‘Very decent of you,’ she smiled. ‘I like this plan, husband, but I am not sure what the lords and merchants of the Free Cities and beyond will think of our beasts.’

‘I want to give you everything you want,’ he whispered. ‘To travel the world, or find a corner to hide from it. I am as tired of duty as you are, to my very bones. I never thought that being glad to be alive would so quickly turn to being pissed off about it.’

Her face was marred by a bitter twist, eyes glittering as if tears were welling again. Her beringed hand stroked one bearded cheek, rasping fingertips. ‘I know, my love,’ she said softly, then her mobile mouth quirked in diverting mischief. ‘You want to give me everything I want, and yet you deny me my release.’ She bent and sank her teeth into the side of his neck, and he jumped at the lick of pain. To retaliate, he let his free hand creep between her legs again, checking on her. She was swollen, the silk clinging like a second skin. He rubbed the heel of his palm in lazy circles, and she gasped and bit him again.

All lingering serious words on his tongue melted away as his mouth watered, longing for the taste of her at last. She was so wet he could trace the shape of her beneath the gown, find her nub and tug at it between finger and thumb. ‘Are you ready for me?’

‘Mmm yes, make me come,’ she breathed, arching her hips into his taunting hand. ‘Please, I ache so badly.’

He made no promises as yet, wanting to draw it out for as long as possible so he got his desire, to see her so undone she was begging for her release, and in the aftermath she was so relaxed and could take him easily. Once he was inside her in that taut space between her cheeks, watching her receive his cock, he would not be able to hold himself back for long, and he had a horror of hurting her more than was pleasurable. He didn’t move until his touch elicited a strangled moan, then he grunted at her. ‘Sit up so I can take off this pretty whore’s dress.’

She was clumsy, pitching forward so he could slip the sash free first, then lift the airy silk over her head, revealing smooth haunches, the line of her spine, then he tipped her sideways and laid her against the pillows, taking in her breasts and belly and her mound, beaded with arousal and naked but for a patch of silver curls. The sash he kept, sliding it between his fingers, and she spotted it and raised her arms above her head in silent understanding, her lids lowered secretively but her mouth hanging open, still puffed and rosy from sucking his cock to completion.

Once he had her wrists bound and secured to the headboard, leaving enough slack so he could flip her over when it was time, he deliberately stayed far from her cunt, merely pushing a pillow under her hips and positioning her sticky thighs wide. When he slid up between them to kiss her, she whined, suckling his bottom lip sharply, her eyes now dark and needy. He paid court to her breasts, mouthing each nipple leisurely, his lively cock nudging at the crease between thigh and groin and making her squirm disobediently for more friction. ‘Stop it, not yet,’ he growled at her. ‘Hold it in until I say you can come, I know you can do it.’

Her eyes scrunched, and he watched her through his lashes as she struggled for control over herself, several heaves of air and flexing of her bound hands as he raked his teeth over her peaks to turn them red as her ruby. Her arousal was now like a smothering perfume, her skin so hot and jumpy beneath his drifting hands he knew it would be too cruel to drag it out for much longer, but the dark core of his soul that she brought out in him from the very start was relishing her distress.

When he finally relented, shuffling downwards, taking mouthfuls of skin, the tips of his fingers found her drenched, and grazing along the curve of her outer lips made her jerk in her restraints, a single flick of his tongue over the sheath of skin hiding her nub answered with a cry. She would combust immediately if he caressed that little bundle of nerves he was so familiar with, so he went everywhere but there, moaning in bliss at the flavour of her, ripe fruit with a hint of seawater, rich and as satisfying as her crazed responses.

He held her open with both hands, admiring the deep pink of her, and thrust his tongue in her as far as it would go, lapping up the slightly different taste inside her channel. Her thighs clamped around his head to attempt more friction, highly disobedient, so he pinned her down against the pillow, punishing her with the faintest circular motions around her nub. She keened and rocked as much as she could against his face, finding voice and begging now. ‘Please, oh please Jon, I need to come, it aches…make me come!’

Her ragged words made his own ache worse, his cock trapped uncomfortably between his belly and the bedsheets, throbbing and bloody single minded as usual. He ignored it stolidly, returning his focus to his lady in distress, prolonging the tease for a little longer, coating his fingers with her mess and finding her arse again, one then two breaching the ring of muscle and splaying, his tongue merely flicking around its end goal.

She writhed under his assault, now free to move, cursing vilely, and finally he gave it to her, firm laps of the flat of his tongue, no more than a dozen before he looked up her body and nodded, giving his permission at last. She screamed and arched up, a gush of sweet elixir into the seal of his mouth, the ripples of her climax passing through his veins to swell his cock still further. Much as he loved the sensory overload of her coming all over his face, he was desperate to feel that storm clenching around him, so he rose in a fluid move, gathering one quivering leg to open her up, and sunk deep into her cunt with a single thrust.

If her hands were free she would have clawed his back bloody. Instead, her eyes bulged and she screamed again, and the clasp of her around him, fluttering like a heart, was so incredibly close he struggled to gain a grip on himself and prevent from rutting within her until she brimmed with his seed. He froze and bit into her throat to subdue her and himself, fighting an inward duel with his base instinct, the special treat of having her arse would be their mutual reward.

He managed to damp down the raging fire in his guts, and released her throat, finding a purple weal left behind that he kissed in apology. He found her panting mouth, kissing her hungrily, his hips moving in lazy circular movements to stir her flesh as she came down from her high and went slack, her griping and struggling dying away. Lifting her leg higher, he withdrew and slid into her again, repeating the move, her cunt fitting him like a sheath to a blade, slippery and yielding, her moans echoing his own pleasure at the familiar, addictive merging of their bodies.

Trapped beneath him, she was all scorching, pillowy flesh, clouds of silver-white hair that smelled of grass and wildflowers, eyes brimming with love and desire that had transformed to the colour of the sky outside. A goddess he had no right to be thinking of in such a manner, a fierce, unobtainable warrior queen who irritated him and intrigued him and made him relieve himself on lonely nights in her island fortress, wondering what she tasted and felt like under his tongue and hands, or wrapped around his cock.

After that moment of lunacy in the cave he thanked himself for every day since, he discovered she was a woman after all, strangely eager to let a penniless, moody bastard king into her bed, seeing great worth in him he did not see himself. It was a long time ago, but he sometimes felt like she was sitting atop a throne hewn from a mountain of rock, and he a besotted supplicant at her feet. That she gave herself over to him so completely like this made the old, haunting sensation stronger. He would never stop trying to conquer her though he had won her heart, and she didn’t want him to.

He paused in his thrusts and murmured brokenly into her mouth, nonsense words of love, and she smiled up at him with the perfect confidence of a woman who knew it was so. ‘And I love you,’ she breathed. ‘Now mess me up and hurt me, I want to feel it in the morning when I’m sitting in my meeting.’

‘Fucking hell,’ he hissed, narrowing his gaze at her, his length twitching angrily inside her. ‘So naughty. Well then, you asked for it.’

He made a ritual of it, the turning, the positioning, the gentling and crooning as if she was a novice instead of well broken in, knowing by her whines it all added to her arousal. He had stretched her, his length was glistening with her juices, but he dribbled spit onto his hand and spread it across the small opening, taking from her weeping core and adding it for good measure. When he breached her with the head of his cock, she made a savage sound, her breath whooshing from her lungs, tensing between his hands.

He paused with great effort, the tight lock of her arse hurting him as well, but then she completely destroyed him as she was so good at doing, backing up to take the full length of him with a drawn-out moan of pain, until his stones were flush against her cunt. The sight of him engulfed in her by inches was just too much, on top of the heat and pressure he felt his head was going to crack open and spill his remaining wits.

She panted heavily as she struggled to absorb the self-inflicted invasion, her trapped hands balled into fists, a visible shudder over her dewy skin, and then she mewled loudly as his hand found her cunt, stroking her nub to help her, and she wriggled on his impaling cock, a signal to get moving and fuck her hard. He surrendered utterly, falling into the darkest part of himself, not grudging a single inch, spearing her with his length repeatedly, holding her pinned with her cheeks spread wide, savouring every sharp cry and throaty moan, knowing when he plugged her cunt with his fingers she would be liquid, dripping on the fine sheets.

She was in a defensive crouch, shuddering from head to toe violently as if she had not reached it yet, the border between pleasure and pain she had described to him once. His hand fumbled to check on her, and sure enough her cunt sucked his fingers inside her greedily, soft as butter, his palm catching her nub, as hard as a berry, the stroke of his cock through the thin wall of flesh making him groan. She was still wonderfully tight, but taking him easier, he could chase it down, the light at the end of the tunnel, relieve the clawing ache in his stones as his pleasure became as anguished as hers.

He worked his fingers in her cunt, finding her spot, her spine bent so her arse lifted higher to take him all, every harsh slap edging her and him towards utter ruin. It was a different sort of release for her, loud wailing and a lengthy pulsing around his hand and cock until he slipped his hand loose to hold her down and finish it, her torment going on and on. He viciously slammed into her once, twice, three times, his heart taxed, his knees threatening collapse as it hit him in the stones, in the small of his back, between his shoulder blades, coming and coming, coating her depths with jerky spurts, blood on his lip where he’d bitten it through.

She was felled beneath his weight, his vision was fuzzy and grey as the release thrummed through every vein and prickled in every pore but he saw her, a pathetic bundle of limbs, her face hidden by her tangled hair, raw marks on her wrists where she had strained against her bonds. When he nosed her hair out of the way to check on her worriedly he found her with eyes closed, a dreamy smile on her flushed face, and she murmured his name when he kissed her in relief. ‘Mmm, still so very good at conquering me.’

***

His favourite place of rest was lying with his head on her breasts, her fingers twisting in his hair that she so admired, the vibration of her voice, the shake of her laughter. Out in public she was so calm and composed, and there was little that could make her queenly mask slip. He never thought he said anything particularly witty, but it always pleased him when she erupted with it, bubbles of mirth like water in a spring, or the raucous, earthy laugh of a tavern wench.

‘A witch,’ she snorted when she finally subsided. ‘You have an uncanny knack for attracting scary women, my pretty husband.’ He huffed and shifted a little to eye her, finding her face pink, azure eyes alight with interest. ‘I would very much like to meet this witch, and see these wares you speak of. We can sneak out tomorrow after the meeting.’

‘You can’t go down to the market without guards and clearing the place of threats,’ he said with reproof. ‘I don’t look like a Targaryen, but you do. You can’t go anywhere without a mini-riot of gawkers.’

 ‘Then I’ll go in disguise. I’ve done it before,’ she said, a stubborn line between her brows. ‘You will recall the last time, I expect.’ Her mouth quirked significantly.

‘The brothel in King’s Landing,’ he muttered darkly, hunting around for words to halt this folly. ‘I will send a servant to ask her to visit the palace with her stock. Then you can question her and buy what you want.’ His own stubbornness was a good match for hers, better in fact, and she sighed and subsided, her hand now petting his hair, spreading it across her chest. He had wiped her loins down with a damp cloth once she’d untied her, but he could catch the scent of her sex on his hands, on his lips, in the sheets. Once he’d had her again, he would fall asleep dreaming of being lost inside her.

‘You’re so sensible,’ she said fondly. ‘Aside from your mad scheme to run away to the east.’ Her expression closed like a flower at dusk. ‘I still remember it. The long road through the tall grass, the heat and dust, the buzzing flies, the lame and old left behind to die. I’d never ridden much before, I was so tired and achy and chafed to ribbons, surrounded by strange, cruel people. A Khaleesi, but a chattel, a brood mare bought and paid for. It was some time before it became more than just misery.’

He recalled that litany of horror she had spat at him in the throne room at Dragonstone. A dainty, highly intimidating woman laden with titles and the dignity of every one of them, confessing to being weak and helpless, raped and defiled. He suffered a qualm, then a flood of thwarted aggression, the urge to hunt down every single man that had hurt her and kill them for her again, but he kept his reply soft and careful, inviting her confidence. ‘You and your mad brother stayed here, before he sold you,’ he guessed. ‘You were wed in the manse where the Dothraki said their farewells. You are at ease in this place, but hate it, because you remember even after all this time.’

There was a lengthy silence, words jammed in her throat, her eyes switching from sad to serene as she took in his face. ‘Every place I have been in the wide world would be like that for me, except with you,’ she said at last, equally soft. ‘It doesn’t matter what terrible memories I have, as long as you are here to help me make better ones. You, and our babes.’ She gave a brave smile, and swallowed, tightening her arm against his bare back to draw him closer, his free hand cupping a breast like a nuzzling child as he listened carefully. ‘I thought I knew what I wanted back then, when I met you. I had no need for love, and the weakness it caused. _Gods_ , I was so angry at myself for wanting you. You turned my life upside down and showed me what I _needed_ when war was over and done. A lover, children, a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, trust and rest. Sod everything else.’

When war was done, he had expected to die again and finally make his escape from the headful of his own memories, but no. Daenerys, he wanted her, when he had rarely let himself want anything. He’d stepped out of the chilly, sullen armour he’d constructed around himself to do it, terrifying himself in the process, and loved her so fiercely with his body and what he had to offer in his soul until there was no possibility of her turning away. By winning her help, her selfless heart in service of the world, he’d also won her, giving him everything to fight for, to see past the bitter end of it, even if the reality was _this_.

They were trapped by blood. duty and their own heroism as king and queen, but he swore to the Old Gods, the fire god, and the strange Valyrian gods of their ancestors he could not name, he would find a way to get her out of it. He would give her that simplicity and peace; an island, sunshine that burned his Northern skin, laughing children, grumbling beasts, snatched nights and afternoons like this, alone and wrapped in each other’s skins.

‘The ring is my promise,’ he said, his voice hoarse but earnest, his eyes causing hers to flinch away, then well with tears, her straying hand cupping the side of his face tenderly. ‘We will do as much as we can, then we walk away and let them sort themselves out. I think we’ve done enough that no one will begrudge it. We will find a place and make a home, like you always wanted, and made me want just as much.’

A sob broke loose, but she supressed it with a pained smile, bending to kiss his brow. ‘You are a man of your word, Jon Snow. I don’t need to hold you to it.’

THE END


End file.
